The Tides of Change (Rewrite)
by PixieLeigh1234
Summary: As Alastair repeated the offer for what felt like the millionth time, the air shimmered behind the demon, a small boy appearing half hidden in shadows. Only… this time the shadows around the kid's face were flickering and fading in and out in the flashes of lightning illuminating the endlessness in all directions. The eyes were Dean's weakness. SPNxHPxBtVS
1. Prologue

**I apologise to everyone who placed the previous version of this story on their favourite and follow lists. It is the same story, I've just tweaked it a bit. I always wanted to put in a prologue, but could never think what to write for it, but now it's done. I hope you can enjoy this version. So... on with the story. Thanks, Pixie **

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

**Prologue**

Ducking under the blade of the axe swinging for his neck, he came up behind the demon and rammed his knife into its back, before yanking it out and running on. He had neither the time nor the inclination to make sure it was properly dead as he swerved around cars and jumped over garbage; he had one focus and one focus only.

And it didn't involve being topside when the monsters descended.

Not yet.

The fence was a few feet ahead but he didn't slow his speed, instead he sped up, driving muscular legs up and down more ferociously. Once he was within reach, he sent his body to the ground, sliding underneath the gap in the fence, feet first in a full baseball slide. As soon as his long body fully cleared the fence, he came up running, sprinting in the direction of Homebase; an old subway station and the place they had called home for the past few years.

The stairway entrance to the subway station was guarded twenty-four-seven, as were the two escape routes they'd miraculously been able to keep secret. The six on guard duty tonight were immediately on alert as he rounded the block and shot toward them without reducing any of his speed. Terry and Rich were forced to jump out of his way, the rest calling after him for information.

He knew he should pull himself to a stop and explain, but there was no time. Pounding down the stairs, all he could do was call over his shoulder, gruff voice echoing off tiled walls, "They're coming!" and hope the guards knew what their jobs and positions were.

He had his own job to do.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

He held back the screams that wanted to vacate his lungs as he sprinted up the stairs, keeping a firm hold of the very precious bundle draped over his shoulder. A large dirty-white sign stating level 13 flashed in front of him momentarily as he rounded the railing to the next staircase to take them further upwards. Just three more levels to go.

"Just three more, kiddo," he spoke aloud to his son without realising it, his brain needing the stimulus to keep going, to keep pushing his legs up and down.

As if his body needed any more incentive to keep going. He could feel the fresh warm blood draining down his chest, through his thin t-shirt. Gunfire and screaming echoed up and around the staircase from the ground floor below, those of his party doing all they could to impede the demon army's advancement so he could reach the top.

They wouldn't last much longer. He hated to think it, but it was inevitable.

A few hundred against thousands… there was no conceivable odds to that.

His little boy cried out over his shoulder as they took a sharp turn around the next guardrail to continue upwards.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, kiddo, just hang on, please hang on …" he trailed off into a whisper, his breath becoming shorter; lungs hammering against at least four broken ribs.

He had to get there. He had to reach the top; there was no other alternative. This was the core of their two years of planning. It was what all those below and others scattered across the compound were willingly sacrificing their lives for. It was what the rest of his family had died for.

A burst of speed suddenly spread through him. He shot a quick glance at his son, whose small hand was now resting against his chest, a spark of energy seeping out of the hand and into his body.

"Stop that," he ordered, "you need to save your energy."

"W-won't nee-need it if we d-don't get u-up th-there soon," his boy stuttered out through hisses of pain.

As much as he wanted to dispute that statement, his kid was right. All the energy in the world wouldn't change the outcome if he couldn't get them both up to that specific spot that was central to their plan succeeding.

"All right, buddy, just hold on for me. We're nearly there."

Reaching the sixteenth floor moments later, he slammed his way into the open and abandoned space, turning back around to close and secure the door with the three consecrated iron and holy water infused beams that had been hauled up here only a week prior.

Being as careful but as swift as he could, he manoeuvred his son into his arms and gently lay him on the floor in a relatively cleaned space. With a quick inspection he took in his son's injuries – and had to stop himself from either throwing up or breaking down into sobs. Right now neither action would be productive to his son whose chest was riddled with slash marks from a hellhound. His boy was shivering having succumbed to the effects of blood loss and shock and there was nothing he could do.

"Jesus," he breathed, choking back a sob as he stared deeply into his boy's pain-filled gaze, trying desperately to give him a flimsy smile full of all the comfort and reassurance his child was craving. He had to bite down hard on his bottom lip to stall its trembling from the impact of seeing the clear knowledge of what was coming staring back at him.

"No," he shook his head, "You gotta hold on for me, baby. You can't go, just stay, okay, I need you to stay, kiddo," he whispered, his denial full of its own futility, unconsciously running his hand through the boy's messy and dirty dark hair.

He didn't have the supplies to fix his son's wounds – nor _could_ he fix them; there was too much damage.

_God, this couldn't be happening, not again. _

The barred door behind him was slammed into from the other side, numerous growls echoing through, but they couldn't get in, so he ignored them. For now.

"Its ti-time," his son told him, voice weakening.

He wanted to beg and plead once again for his boy to stay with him; his little boy was all he had left. His son coughed, a harsh body rattling cough that sent blood spraying out of his mouth. He pulled the sleeve of his t-shirt down and used it against the heel of his hand to wipe away the blood from his son's mouth, all the while still staring into his child's heavy-lidded hazel eyes.

The right side of his son's mouth turned up, blood-tinged lips trying for a half-smile, but it was more of a pain-filled grimace. A small, shaky and blood-covered hand reaching up, coming to rest on his left cheek, gentle fingers trying to trace a thick scar flowing from eyebrow to chin. He brought his own hand up to rest against the back of his son's, stilling the shaky movements, his throat tightening painfully as he turned his face into the small hand.

"Lo-love 'ou, Da-Daddy," his boy whispered a tear slipping down his pale cheek, seconds before he felt a sensation of being shoved through a space too tight for his body's capacity, white light exploding around him.

"NOOOO!" he screamed, trying to stop his son… but his child was no longer there.

No… that wasn't right.

_He_ was no longer there.

He was no longer in that abandoned building; no longer with his son.

His son…

He stumbled to the side, catching himself on what he would later realise was a utility pole. He could feel the rays of the sun beating down on him in all its intensity from high above in the blue-blue sky, pain shooting through his eyes as if they had long ago become unaccustomed to such vibrant colour; the colours of his world having grown dull and lifeless.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes so he could lift his head fully to take in his surroundings; booted feet planted on a dirt track joining to a road around fifteen feet to his left. To the right the track ended at a pretty old looking white-slatted farmhouse. A large barn lay a little ways off to the left of the house, fields of dirt surrounding both buildings. An older guy was walking the short distance from the barn with a large bale of hay in his hold, loading it into the bed of a red pick-up truck - one that had seen better days.

Pushing himself off from whatever he was leaning against, he took a step in the direction of the farmhouse, one arm curled against his chest trying to protect his suspected broken ribs. His chest was tight and painful, but he took another step, barely swaying, and made his way up the track.

He came to a stop behind the guy who was now tying down a tarp over the bales of hay stacked in the red pick-up truck.

"Hey," his voice was hoarse; sounding as if he hadn't consumed fluids in a long while. Which could be true; dehydration hadn't really been on his top-ten list of things to think about the past few days.

The guy turned to face him and immediately backed up into the side of the truck, wariness written across his aged face as plain as day. He was startled to find himself surprised by the look. He then quickly realised it was because the people he had been surround by the last few years had lost the wary looks a long time ago. At least they had once they'd grasped the fact he was also a person, a father, and not just the hard-assed leader of the resistance.

_Or_… it could be the gun he still held in his hand; the weapons strapped across his back; the knife in his belt. The blood… NO! He firmly told his brain to shut the fuck up. He refused to go there.

"Mister, we don't want no trouble now, ya hear." He blinked as the guy spoke, the voice shaking. "You just be on your way now."

It had been a long time since _humans_ had been afraid of him.

Well the monsters hadn't been either by the end.

He reached out, gripped the front of the man's jacket, startling the guy, but he didn't retreat. He needed that small contact to anchor himself to the here and now. "Year?" he asked, voice still as dry as the fields surrounding them. "The year? What year is it?"

The man stared at him wide-eyed, still tense and cautious, surveying him as if he had lost his mental faculties – which maybe he had – but he watched as the guy's dark, wary eyes, softened into a warm brown in just the slightest way a moment later. "It's 1972, son."

He stared back at the guy for a good minute, before he found himself whispering, "1972."

"Yes, son, 1972," the guy responded as if he had voiced it as a question.

He blinked.

It had worked.

God damn it, it had worked.

But… it hadn't gone to plan; his son was meant to be here with him!

Yet… his son had known, hadn't he.

He had known he was never going to make it and had done what he had to; sacrificing himself in the process.

His son had become just another statistic of death; joining the billions before him. But it was a loss that couldn't be tallied on any graph or chart. It was a loss that broke something deep inside of him.

He collapsed to his knees, head bowed low, the salt-water of unchecked tears more powerful than the blood, dirt and grime coating the rough skin of his face as rivulets were hewn down his cheeks.

None of it was right.

He had been fighting for years.

He never thought he would lose it all.

He was supposed to go first.

He was so tired, so fucking tired of it all.

He had seen the entire world go to shit.

And now… now he had lost everything and everyone he ever loved.

_Everyone_ …

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

**A/N** - Edited 17/01/15 - Added a few physical characteristics to the characters to hopefully make it easier to read. Thanks to Paxloria for the suggestion


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Dean screamed.

It was a hoarse, gurgling sound that was almost non-existent due to the constant bombardment on his vocal chords. He would have no voice before the day was ended - burnt raw before the torture was ceased for another day. Then it would begin all over again; his entire body healed until he was the picture of health so Alastair could go about dicing and slicing and tearing into him with efficient brutality and bloodlust again… and again… and again.

And always with that creepy smile; the one that promised a continuation of the same torture day… after day… after day.

It always started with the hooks slamming in and through his shoulder and gut. They hoisted him into the air at the exact same time, every time. But he was never ready for it, never prepared for the excruciating pain that overwhelmed every one of his nerve endings as he hung from the hooks with nothing else supporting the weight of his body. No matter how many times he tried to prepare himself for the torture, going over every wound, every slice, it would be for nothing. Each and every day would be as if it were the first time; knowing the pain was coming and unable to do anything to stop his body being mutilated.

And just before the end, it always, always progressed the same way. The same offer repeated over and over – in the exact same manner as Alastair executed the torture – never deviating.

"You can make this stop, Dean," Alastair would tell him with that same creepy smile, "I'll put down my blade. All you have to do is pick one up instead. You accept that offer and you'll never have to suffer through this pain again."

The last part was said with a sympathetic inflection, as if he would be doing Dean a favour. Dean doubted Alastair had ever felt sympathetic towards anyone and Dean refused to become that.

Now as Alastair repeated the offer for what felt like the millionth time, the air shimmered behind the demon, a small boy appearing half hidden in shadows. He could no longer remember when the kid had first appeared but he knew it had been just moments after one of the times the offer had been put forth. Something had stirred deep inside of him, a protective instinct he had only ever felt with the boy he had spent almost his entire life raising. Believing it to be another means to torture him, he had tried to ignore the boy, who would always reach out a hand to him after Alastair's offer had been made, just as he was doing now.

Only… this time the shadows around the kid's face were flickering and fading in and out in the flashes of lightning illuminating the endlessness in all directions.

The eyes were his weakness.

The hazel kaleidoscope unable to figure out whether they should be green, blue, blue-green, green-blue, grey or even brown.

They were inevitably his doom – though he really wasn't sure if he could be any closer to doom than he was already facing each and every day – and if this was another form of torture, he was about to fall right into it, because in the next moment he did the unthinkable.

He nodded his head up and down as carefully as he could, and hoarsely managed to gargle out the words that would seal his fate.

"Sign me up."

Alastair's creepy smile widened. With a click of his fingers Dean was on the floor, curling into a ball awaiting the further agony to come. He had grown so used to being in constant pain that it took him a good few minutes to realise that there no longer was any pain; his injuries were healed.

Raising his head, his eyes flickered over to the boy whose gaze was no longer on him but boring into Alastair, a small smirk curling his lips. Dean's eyes snapped to the demon who had tortured him for who knew how long as Alastair doubled over before snapping upright only seconds later, arms flung open wide and mouth slack-jawed in a silent scream. The demon's eyes popped like a firecracker, flames licking at the sockets. The human shell Alastair had taken on to torture Dean burnt away until only ash and the black smoke of the demon's true form remained.

The same black smoke that was baring down on Dean at an alarming rate. He scrambled to his feet and began to back away just as the smoke slammed into some kind of invisible barrier between him and it. Dean looked toward the little boy, who's hard, angry eyes, remained on Alastair. Dean shoved his hands against his ears a second later trying to block out the eerie screeching surrounding him as the smoke began to writhe back and forth, lightning flashing without and within, until with an almost silent pop Alastair imploded.

The backlash sent Dean straight onto his ass.

He jumped as a small hand slipped into his own. He stared down at it as if a touch that didn't involve pain had become a completely foreign concept to him. He raised his eyes slowly to those of the boy's, and realised their surroundings had changed. He pushed himself to his feet, alert.

No longer was he in that endless place he had occupied for… well, he wasn't sure how long that had actually been, Hell didn't exactly strike him as a place that invested in calendar's. He and the boy were in what looked to be some form of desolate forest though everything had a washed out look to it – unless that was his eyes having not adjusted to proper light yet.

"What is this place?" he questioned hoarsely, hoping the boy understood English. That hope turned to dust as he still received no answer after what had to be a good few minutes of scouting around their immediate vicinity.

Turning to check the boy was still actually with him, he was shocked to find himself greeted with the sight of the boy standing before him without being wrapped amongst shadows.

He had to be three foot in height; standing with a quality of grace that Dean would picture someone with far more years on their shoulders having, rather than the roughly four or five year old child before him. Dean frowned as he spied the soft points of elongated ears protruding through the mass of midnight-black wavy hair framing the ivory skin of the angelic face. He wondered momentarily if the boy was actually a girl, but he shook it off, the kid's facial features, though innocent, spoke of a boy. As they looked up at him, Dean now noticed that those big and expressive kaleidoscope eyes that had had him agreeing to Alastair's offer were rimmed with a soft golden glow as if the lights from a thousand stars had been sucked in – much like he had – and become infused within the orbs.

But it was the wings that held his attention.

They were actually feathery, like swan feathers, layer upon layer upon layer of downy feathers; midnight black matching that of the boy's hair bled into raven blue, which bled into a soft grey that Dean could swear actually glittered silver at the tips. They fluttered gently, then were still, that same soft golden glow that seeped from the boy's eyes radiating from the entirety of the ten foot wingspan.

An angel in hell?

_Huh, yeah right_, Dean scoffed to himself, shaking his head. He didn't even believe angel's actually existed, let alone there being one standing right in front of him. For all he knew this kid was some kind of hallucination. Maybe this place the boy had brought him to was just another form of Hell; another form of torment made to constantly remind him of the baby brother he'd left behind to survive without him and would give anything to get back to.

He was startled as words, softly spoken in a voice that could only belong to a young child, echoed around him, yet the kid's lips never moved: _It's_ _Purgatory_.

"Purgatory?" Dean questioned startled, voice hoarse. He could really go for a drink right about now, he was so fucking thirsty. "Purgatory's real?"

The boy nodded. _Where did you think the monsters go when they die?_ The words were once again spoken without the boy's lips moving.

Dean shrugged lightly, "Just figured once they were dead, that was it for them," he coughed lightly, "Never really thought about it, or cared."

The boy nodded as if he already knew this of Dean._ Monsters have no souls – they cannot go up or down. They reside in between, as they do on Earth._ _Only people have a means of escaping here._

Escape? That was pretty much all Dean currently got out of that explanation. "How?" he demanded. "Pretty sure I'm dead. Aren't I just a soul right now?"

_Souls don't feel thirst, nor do they feel hunger_, the boy stated.

Dean frowned. He knew he was thirsty, his throat felt as parched as the Sahara Desert, but he listened to the rest of his body, and quickly wished he hadn't; he was famished, a spasm of gnawing hunger tore through his gut. He unconsciously curled an arm around his stomach, turning questioning eyes back to the boy.

_So I was able to bring your body to you_, the boy shrugged his shoulders slightly like it was no big deal, _the moment you took my hand in Hell, you were alive once again. Now the rest is up to you_.

"You mean before I die of starvation or dehydration?"

_You won't_.

"Then how?" Dean questioned again, unsure whether he should believe the kid on the not dying of starvation thing.

_A portal_… the boy stilled, his eyes becoming unfocused momentarily, before they focused once again. _I don't have much time. You have to find the portal, I cannot guide you. All I can say is that you'll know it when you see it. And it's in that direction._ The boy pointed off to the left. Dean didn't think that was particularly helpful. _Go quickly_. _You're escape has been felt; they're coming for you_.

"Demons?" Dean swivelled his head back and forth, wary, and feeling vulnerable without a weapon in his hands. Not seeing anything he turned his gaze back to the boy, but the boy was no longer there. "Dammit."

That's when he heard the growling.

"Not just demons then," he whispered, leaning down and retrieving a reasonably thick and sturdy fallen branch. It wouldn't help much in chopping off monster heads, but it would have to do until he could at least get some form of proper weapon.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Apparently I don't own Supernatural, Harry Potter or Buffy.

Not Beta'd - as I don't have one - any mistakes are my own :)

SPN~HP~BTVS

**Chapter Two**

He jolted forward. Dull hazel eyes snapping open, the long body bolting up out of the bed to race across the small and grungy motel room and into the even smaller and grungier bathroom. Dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, he emptied the little he had in his stomach into the porcelain bowl. Tears were streaming from his eyes minutes later from the forcefulness of his retching, hair plastered to his face, his stomach muscles constricting.

Minutes later his body was finally done trying to turn inside out and breathing heavily, Sam slumped back against the side of the bathtub, scrubbing at his sweaty and tear-laden face with his hands as he tried to regulate his harsh breaths.

Once he felt under some semblance of control, the young hunter pushed himself onto shaky legs and flushed the toilet before moving to stand in front of the wash basin. He ran the cold faucet, gathering the water into cupped hands and splashed his face with the cool liquid. He repeated the action twice more before wetting a washcloth and placing it at the back of his neck. Pulling it away after a minute, he grabbed the towel off the rail on the wall beside him and dabbed it over his much cooler skin.

He rested his hands on the sides of the basin, staring into the grimy mirror above it. He detested what he saw. Deep shadows circled bloodshot eyes, standing out more noticeably in the pallor of his usually tanned skin. The sleepless and nightmare filled nights were taking a toll. He had not had an undisturbed night's sleep for weeks, and just tonight he had had what amounted to a forty-five minute nap at best.

The accountability for his lack of sleep didn't reside on his nightmares alone, but the visions plaguing him also. They had started in May, barely days after Dean… he slammed a door in his mind against that thought as he walked back into the main room and over to the kitchenette to get himself a glass of water to rinse the taste of bile and stomach acid from his mouth.

His visions had primarily just been sketches and flashes of people, of events, but in the past few weeks they had grown more intense; grown beyond the parameters of natural dreaming; beyond _any_ visions he had experienced in the past. Sam knew what those in his dreams were thinking; he could feel their emotions could feel their injuries as if they were his own, and yet when he awoke, there was no sign of even a scratch upon his skin. It felt as if he were the people in his dreams, experiencing what they were experiencing.

And then had come the dreams of Dean; the same dreams over and over again of his big brother's soul suffering horrific torture in Hell. Though… strangely, the one he had just awoken from had been hugely different. For where previously he could only watch in horror as his big brother was tortured mercilessly and repeatedly - his tormentor sickeningly enjoying every second of it and Sam had to take several deep calming breaths to stop himself from heaving again at that remembered feeling – this time the little boy who keeps cropping up in the dream had once again appeared and Dean had agreed to get off the rack.

But it couldn't be _real_. God, but it had felt so real; as if he himself could have reached out and touched his brother. But it had been a dream, not a vision. He shook his head; he couldn't tell the difference anymore between a vision and a dream. Sam dumped the glass in the murky sink, his frustration with the dreams practically seeping through his pores.

He often wondered if this was his punishment. It was his fault Dean was in Hell; his fault Dean had had to sell his soul in the first place; his fault he hadn't been able to save the _one_ person who had done everything for him, who had _always_ been there for him. And what had Sam done to repay Dean?

Let him go to Hell, that's what.

He was such a colossal fuck up.

And he wished more than anything that his big brother was here with him.

It was only when Sam crossed back to the bed and saw the stain on the sheet covering the mattress that he realised the fabric of the sweatpants against his legs was cool and slightly stiff. He'd wet the bed, again. Just one more epic failure in a line of epic failures.

Sighing softly, he swiftly stripped the sheets from the bed, balling them up and tossing them over into a corner before he grasped the mattress and flipped it over, letting it fall back onto the base with a thud. He didn't bother trying to find something else to lay over the mattress, he wouldn't be getting any further sleep tonight.

Crossing back to the bathroom, he switched the shower on; he stripped out of his soiled sweatpants and boxers, his t-shirt following. He stepped under the warm spray, letting it flow over his weary body. It wasn't the first time in his twenty-five years of life that he had wet the bed, and certainly not the first over the past two months. Before that… he had gotten better. He had had to. He had spent a year doing his best to train his body to do what it had never let him do before; to stay dry during the nights, only managing it a few months before the deal had come due, a pretty good accomplishment considering the prior twenty-four years he had spent in diapers when he slept.

The night after Dean… went away… all the training in the world couldn't have stopped him from wetting the bed.

Drying himself off and dressing in his usual jeans and t-shirt, he let out a weary sigh as he tied the last lace of his boot. Rising from the bed, he snagged the old black hoodie from the back of a chair before he made his way out of the motel door. Closing the door firmly behind him, he slipped the hoodie over his head. Despite Sam being taller than his brother, Dean's upper body was broader and a little longer than his own, meaning the hoodie was slightly too large, but he didn't care. It still smelled strongly of Dean and that's what Sam needed right now.

It was a cool night, the moon shining high in the sky as Sam found his feet taking him across the parking lot to an old swing-set, taking a seat on one of the swings. The rusted chains gave a slight squeak as he started to swing back and forth lightly with his tiptoes. Sam was too tired to even trudge up the thought that they might be rusted enough to snap with his weight on them.

The repetitive motion of swaying back and forth usually soothed away his troubles for a little while or at least it used to when his brother would sit with him in a rocking chair in the motels they had stayed in. Dean had always rolled his eyes heavenward at the sight of a rocking chair in any of the rooms, cursing under his breath at whoever he could for its presence. But it had usually been his brother that instigated their sitting in the things, pulling Sam into his lap after he'd got him diapered and ready for bed. It had been a tradition since they were younger whenever Dad wasn't around – which was often - that had just carried on, neither of them wanting to lose that small moment of brotherliness to the monsters of the world - even though Sam was a big boy now.

Although, now that Sam thought about it, perhaps it was actually the presence of his brother that soothed him rather than the actual swaying motion for he didn't feel soothed at this point. It could have something to do with the fact he was oh-so-very alone for the first time in his life.

He knew it hadn't been one of his better ideas to sneak out of Bobby's in the dead of night - nor switch off all but one of his phones so the older hunter couldn't get in touch with him or find him - but it had been almost stifling being under the other hunter's watchful gaze practically twenty-four-seven. He had just had to get outta there before he lost his mind completely.

But it was a lost resource. He had been relentlessly ploughing his way through Bobby's immense book collection fruitlessly searching for a way to bring his brother back from the pit, but Bobby had soon banned him from touching _any_ books after that unfortunate incident where Sam had passed out and hit his head. Because of that small moment and further to Sam's chagrin, rules had been implemented. _Dean's_ rules; the kind that only Dean ever got away with giving Sam. Like specific mealtimes and naptimes… and bedtime.

The bedwetting hadn't helped. Bobby had always known of course; it was a little hard for him not to know. The man was Dean's surrogate father – more of a father than John Winchester had ever been in Sam's opinion – and the man Dean _talked_ to about the things he couldn't talk with his little brother about. They had both spent numerous amounts of time in the gruff man's house going back as far as Sam could remember, but Bobby had never been to Sam what he was to Dean. Sam already had that; he had always been Dean's kid. Not John's. Not Bobby's. _Dean's_.

Dean was his brother, mother and father all rolled into one.

It didn't mean Bobby couldn't be happy for him. The man had been just as proud as Dean had to find out Sam had stayed dry for an entire week, and that's why Sam hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Bobby he'd started wetting the bed and needed his diapers changed again.

It wasn't that Sam didn't love his Uncle Bobby, he did, and the older hunter had only been trying to do what Dean had asked of him and look after Sam, but all Sam could see was someone trying to fill his big brother's shoes by shoving his rules in his face, because he sure as hell didn't want or _need_ someone taking his brother's place. Taking his dad's place.

He _needed_ Dean.

And yeah, Sam had almost instantly felt guilty for having thrown a tantrum about it – and not just because Bobby's hand still smarted when applied to the meaty under curve of a backside - but what had Bobby expected, anyway? Who could eat and sleep when their big brother was suffering untold torment in Hell and it was all their fault?

And it was kinda hypocritical of the man to ban him from the books for that when Bobby was practically spending his days as the poster boy for all whiskey companies everywhere. More so than normal that is.

Sam sighed as he rested his head against the swings chain ropes and closed his eyes as a tight ball of grief and helplessness wound in his stomach. He could feel the frustration buzzing through him like an electrical cable. He felt, no, he knew, he should be doing more.

There had to be a way of getting his big brother back and out of Hell.

There just _had_ to be.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

Across the street and under the shadows of the forest of trees, a figure stood watching the tall form slumped against the swings chain-rope, feeling the misery and grief practically seeping from the kid, even at the distance he stood. He wanted to go to him, reassure him that things were going to be okay – or as okay as they could be – but he didn't.

Couldn't.

He hadn't spent the past thirty-six years walking a thin line between wanting to jump in and change everything for those he loved - and therefore completely and irrevocably changing the future - and standing on the side-lines watching history repeating itself and _not_ interfering. It had been a constant battle within him from the second he had stood outside that house those long years ago in Lawrence, Kansas, and _let it happen_.

He hadn't been there to stop it. He hadn't gone back in time to stop _anything_.

He had gone back for the truth; before it was once again too late.

The fluttering of wings jarred him from his thoughts. It was a sound he hadn't heard in over thirty-eight years; the last of the angel's had been destroyed two years prior to the final battle. Now he stared at the back of the dark cropped head of hair, the familiar tan trench coat rustling as the angel settled himself into a stationary position ten feet in front of him - an invisible sentinel to the boy across the street.

He knew the angel hadn't sensed him, the cloak surrounding him preventing his presence being detected; by angel or demon. Now he just had to weigh up his options to approach or not. In all honesty there was a question burning inside of him, one he needed an answer to for Castiel's presence here, tonight, was in itself changing things for the future. This hadn't happened before, so why now?

He lowered his cloak.

Castiel spun to face him a millisecond later, his face the unemotional mask he had almost forgotten the newly Earth-bound angel had possessed. Though, as Castiel titled his head ever so slightly, Jimmy Novak's blue eyes looking him up and down, he almost smirked at the curiosity he knew lay just beneath the surface.

"You…" the head tilted a fraction further, "You do not belong to this time. I - I cannot tell from which time you belong. You are a drifter in time."

"And here I always said you never had an observant bone in your celestial body."

Castiel frowned, forehead creasing in confusion, "My celestial form does not have bones."

He sighed, rolling his eyes at the angel's usual cluelessness when it came to earth phrases, at least in the beginning – and mostly at the end too. "Never mind. Aren't you and you're buddies supposed to be gearing up for _the_ big event soon to take place?" he questioned, having a hard time keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. "Instead of watching a kid on a swing like some perv?"

Castiel's frown deepened, "The big event you speak of has been… cancelled," he said all of this slowly as if debating with himself the proper words to speak – which with Castiel could be very likely – but he saw the truth in the words.

He felt his own eyes grow large. "Cancelled? What the hell's that supposed to mean? It's kinda an important gig, man!" He was quite proud of the fact he'd managed to keep his voice even and steady as not to garner Sam's attention by yelling at the idiot angel that he'd once called friend.

"I am not a man."

He growled, he really couldn't help it. "Really not important right now, Castiel! Big event. Why's it been cancelled?"

"The subject in question no longer resides where he was supposed to be," Castiel informed him.

He frowned. "No longer …" he stopped, silently running the words through his mind several times. When he grasped the full meaning he really couldn't stop himself from letting out an unamused bark of laughter – a harsh sound to his own ears. "Wow, just… wow. The _angel's_ went and lost him? It's a little shy of the four month timeframe you and your angel friends were hoping for before you got to drag his ass back up here though, huh?" he clucked his tongue, before continuing. "Before he can be that ever-important catalyst to the breaking of the First Seal of Revelations," he stated and waited for a reaction.

Castiel didn't disappoint, the shutters slamming down across his features and eyes. "How do you know of the Seals?" the angel demanded, stepping closer to him.

He stared back with incredulity at the question. "Drifter in time, remember? You just coined that phrase yourself. I've been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. I know all about your dick friends plans for the Winchesters to bring on the apocalypse, releasing Lucifer in the process."

"That is not the conclusion we want," Castiel said in defence of his and his fellow brethren's actions.

He snorted darkly. The angel was so naïve. "Spare yourself the breath, Castiel. I _know_ Zachariah's plans; Azazel's plans; Lucifer's plans; Michael's plans. They _all_ want the big Michael/Lucifer showdown. And yeah, it happens, but not in accordance with any of their plans. It was stopped …" As he said it, he couldn't prevent his eyes tracking past the angel's shoulder to the kid still slumped on the swing across the street unaware of their presences' in the shadows.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three **

The old Hall was quiet; the only time that it would be quiet. There was no random screaming and shouting coming from the semi-filled dorms on the third floor, nor were any fights erupting amongst the young girls and teenagers occupying those dorms. The dead of night was pretty much the only time Ederaah Hall, home to the main headquarters of the International Council of Watchers and Slayers, had any peace and quiet.

Kacey 'Kaca' DeReasya woke with a start. Her eyes darted around her as she tried to come up with a reason as to why she had awoken. There was nothing in her shared bedroom. Her younger cousin, Breana, lay sound asleep in the bed opposite hers, and she obviously hadn't heard anything out of sorts. Her ears strained to see if she heard anything.

Again she heard something faint. Scratching's or banging's maybe? She couldn't tell. Scottie and Carlie were probably banging away at their drums again in the dorms above. If she found out they were, she was going to knock their heads together for waking her up in the middle of the night – no matter that the two small eleven year olds could probably kick her arse.

She got out of bed and moved to her door. She was just grabbing her bathrobe off the hook on the back, when she heard the sound once again. She turned quickly; sure the sound had come from behind her. Frowning, she crossed to the window and opened the curtain covering the edge of her window and peered out, surprised to see a brown owl perched precariously on the thin outer frame of her window.

Being as quiet as she could, so as not to wake Breana, she opened her window to allow the owl in, wondering if it was from one of her friends from Hogwarts. The owl hooted softly and landed upon her desk. A letter was attached to its leg and upon removing it the owl flew off through the window.

Kaca closed the window again, whilst looking at her name and location written by a neat hand in the centre of the envelope. It was definitely not a handwriting she recognised to belong to one of her friends. Crossing to her door, she grabbed her bathrobe and pulled it on as she slipped out of her room, making her way down the back stairs that led to the apartment's small private kitchen, being careful of the rickety spots.

Grabbing a glass of juice, she left the kitchen and entered the living room. Turning on the lamp that sat atop the small table beside the armchair situated by the fireplace, she took a seat in the chair, drawing her legs up under her. Grasping the throw hanging over the back of the armchair, she pulled it down over her to ward against the summer night's chill; the draughty old Hall was not the warmest of places at night.

Once she was comfortable, she used her thumb and forefinger to break the wax seal. Pulling the letter from the envelope, she found her gaze drawn to her right hand, to the ring situated on her ring finger. She gasped as it moved on its own, slipping off her finger. She could not recall ever having removed that ring, nor had she ever felt an inclination to do so. She looked to her lap as it fell into it and moved her hand down to retrieve it, but found her eyes becoming heavy. Her head tilted to the side, her cheek coming to rest against the side of the chair as she drifted off to sleep.

She awoke a few hours later to someone shaking her shoulder and calling her name. She blinked until her eyes focused. Ashley, her Aunt Buffy and Uncle Mitch's thirteen-year-old daughter was standing in front of her, concern written on her face. Kaca sat up, lowering her legs down from the chair. As she moved, she spotted the letter that had partially slipped down the side of the chair and remembered the night before. She must have fallen back to sleep before reading it.

"Kaca, are you okay?" Ashley questioned. "Did you sleep down here?"

Kaca stretched lightly. "Must have. What time is it?" she questioned, noticing Ashley was already dressed for her morning training session. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a neat ponytail.

"Not yet seven," Ashley responded. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked once again. "You don't look yourself, did you have a nightmare or something?"

"Don't recall having a nightmare," Kaca answered with a frown, her mind somewhat fuzzy. "I'm okay," she assured the younger girl as she stood.

As she did, something clinked against the stone floor. Ashley bent down to pick it up whilst Kaca folded the blanket, resting it back over the armchair where it belonged.

"This your ring, Kaca?"

"Huh?" She turned to Ashley who was holding out her ring. "Oh, yeah, thanks, Ash," she said slipping it back on her finger, forehead creased into a frown. "I'll see you at breakfast if your still here, cuz," she added, heading back upstairs.

She reached her bedroom and realising she was unlikely to go back to sleep, she set the letter in the drawer of her nightstand, grabbed fresh clothing and her wash things and headed for the bathroom.

Entering the bathroom, she tiredly threw herself into her morning routine of showering and dressing, her sleep-filled mind drifting from thought to thought about the many dreams she had had that night. There was something niggling at the back of her mind about the dreams that she thought she should be remembering, but every time she went looking for it, her mind seemed to veer off into another thought.

Stepping out of the shower fifteen minutes later, she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself, whilst using a smaller towel to rub her long blonde hair. As she set it over the drying rack, her ring caught her eye. The once plain amethyst stone set atop the plain white-gold band now held a pattern etched into it she had never noticed before. It quickly faded, and she thought perhaps she had imagined it.

Moving closer to the window, she brought her finger closer to her eyes, using the daylight streaming through the misted window to see more clearly. The amethyst was plain. She _must_ have imagined it. She sighed. Her eyes widened as the lines appeared upon the stone again, before disappearing. Her mind racing, she breathed upon the ring. This time the lines shone clearly. It was a crest; one she had only the previous evening seen stamped into the wax seal of the letter she had received. _That can't be a coincidence_; she thought and hurried to dress.

Leaving the bathroom, she ran straight into Breana and had to steady her roommate before she toppled backwards down the stairs. "Crap, sorry, Bree," she apologised.

"Don't worry about it," Breana replied with a smile and slipped into the bathroom as Kaca re-entered her bedroom.

Pulling the letter out from her drawer, she slipped it back in its envelope and put the envelope in the back pocket of her jeans. She wanted to read it in private and that was unlikely to happen within this house. Quickly pinning her hair back, she left the bedroom and headed downstairs, her mind constantly on the letter.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

Sam felt a chill sweep through him that was foreign to the coolness of the night, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he felt that creepy sensation of being watched. He snapped his eyes open only to be faced with a pair of bright yellow eyes centimetres from his own. Startled, he tumbled backward off the swing, hitting the floor with a loud thud and a gasp of pain as he cracked his shoulder against the ground.

Before he had time to move or even contemplate the need to run, several pairs of hands were on him, gripping his arms fiercely as he was yanked off the floor and pulled upright until his feet slammed against the ground. Only the hands holding him kept his knees from buckling when the jolt spiked through his legs. A hand descended over his mouth, a horrid stench flaring his nostrils as he tried to breathe without physically breathing the smell in. It was proving near impossible as fear increased his need to breathe when he realised exactly what had a hold of him.

Vampires.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief. His mind had shot directly to Yellow-Eyes, the bastard having somehow crawled his way back from the depths of Hell, but this... vampires he could deal with.

Even if said vampires weren't their usual species of vampire either, but the demon-inhabited corpses that he and Dean had only faced once before. They were the older species predominantly known as Vampyre, former humans who were drained of their blood and then fed the blood of a vampyre to turn them; unlike those who only needed to be fed the blood of a vampire to be created.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

He watched.

Fists clenched so tightly, half-moon grooves were being branded into his palms from his fingernails. He had no doubts there would be blood when this was over.

But he didn't move.

He hated himself for it, but he kept his feet planted right where they were, drawing on every ounce of willpower he had ever had so as not to rush across the street and aid Sam in fighting against the surprise vampyre attack. But if he was right, if what he could feel coming from the kid was right, there was something about to happen that needed to be seen.

Something the angel standing rigidly next to him needed to see.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

The hand over Sam's mouth remained as he was shoved closer to the grotesquely disfigured vampyre before him – obviously the leader – whose yellowing teeth were jagged and long. The grips on his limbs tightened as the demon lowered its head. Sam tensed. He refused to scream as those sharp teeth sank into his neck, tearing skin and muscle.

The hands holding him felt as though they were forcefully trying to squeeze the life out of him and he jerked as a fist caught him in the ribs. As pain tore through him, he sank into the meditative techniques he had been training his mind to shut off to since he was a teenager; it would allow him a degree of control over his body, despite the immense pain.

As a fist cracked against his back, fear laced through him at the thought that he was going to die here. A demon was sucking the life out of him and he would never see Bobby again; never get the chance to tell the man he was sorry for running away. He would never free Dean from Hell; never see his big brother again. A roaring sound pierced his ears like a wave crashing against a rocky shore and with it a pulse of – something - burst forth from him.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

He felt Castiel startle fractionally next to him as the vampyres were thrown forcibly away from Sam; six vampyres sailing backwards through the air as if invisible bungee cords had grabbed a hold of them from behind and forcefully yanked them back, sending them crashing into the ground.

He could almost hear the cogs turning in Castiel's mind, seeing only demonic powers manifesting themselves, believing Sam to be nothing more than the 'boy with the demon blood' who needed to be stopped before the world was thrown into chaos – chaos Castiel would help to bring forth, no matter if he was just naïvely following orders. Orders that would help in tearing a rift the size of the Grand Canyon between the Winchesters until it was much too late.

Sam hadn't been innocent in all of it; his decision to follow the wrong path was costly, but it had never been about Sam with Castiel – or any of the angel's – it had always been about the Righteous Man – who had become too righteous for his own good after his return from Hell and thinking he had the angel's in his corner. That he had God's approval and his little brother didn't – that he was special. Castiel had only amplified that thinking.

He intended to put a stop to that this time around.

But first… he frowned as Castiel gasped, stumbling backwards until his back hit the trunk of the tree he'd earlier been shoved into.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

The vampyres were back up within seconds and charging at Sam again.

But this time, Sam reacted instinctively, his body reacting to the danger almost against his say so. He ran across to the rickety waist-height fence panels surrounding the swings, snapping off a piece and holding it in his right hand as the vampyres came after him. He grabbed the closest vampyre around the throat with his left hand. Wielding the piece of fencing like a stake, he slammed it through the heart of two vampyres in quick succession as he tore the head off of the one in his hold.

How the hell had he done that?

He had no time to contemplate the answer because two more vampyres were racing at him with furious growls.

Without thinking, and in a move that would have had him sleeping on his stomach for a few nights had Dean been there, he recklessly threw himself straight at the oncoming vampyres. One caught him almost effortlessly, but Sam twisted himself around in mid-air, lashing a leg out at the other vampyre. He slammed his foot in the demons face, knocking it back a few feet, whilst the one who had a hold of him lost its balance, Sam's momentum taking them both down.

Sam slammed the stake through the things heart before it could even react and didn't wait around for the dust to settle as he threw the stake over his shoulder, nailing the other vampyre through the back. It exploded in a cloud of ash.

Stumbling around, his adrenaline slowly seeping away and feeling the effects of the blood loss, Sam's attention turned to the last vampyre; the one who had bitten and fed from him. The vampyre was on its knees, its face twisted in agony as it held its arms around its stomach as if the vampyre had an agonising stomach-ache. Then, to Sam's shock, the vampyre's head tilted backwards, mouth open in a silent scream - an action that looked very similar to black-smoke demons possessing or dispossessing the human they had been occupying, but that wasn't what happened here, instead flames began to lick at the vampyre from the inside out. Within seconds, the vampyre had joined its brethren as a pile of ash; all of it beginning to scatter in the night's soft breeze.

Glancing around to make sure no others were going to jump out at him, Sam ran back to his motel room, fumbling for his key momentarily with his shaky hands, whilst still warily glancing around. Getting the key out of his pocket a second later he jammed it into the lock, twisted, opened the door and hurriedly threw himself inside.

Slamming the door behind him, he locked it again before he collapsed to the floor, holding a hand to his bleeding wound as dizziness swept through his head. The blood splashing down upon the floor went unnoticed as Sam tried to bring the dizziness under control, but it wasn't working; his vision was darkening.

He knew he couldn't pass out; it would be a sure road to a swift death. He was bleeding too profusely from the neck wound and from the pain and tightness on the right-hand side of his chest he potentially had a broken rib. He blinked, trying to clear the darkness from his eyes, he didn't want to die here.

Realising he needed help, Sam tried to shift himself so he could at least crawl to his phone, but he had made only the slightest movement when sharp pain suddenly seared through his chest, grey fog clouding his vision as he slipped into darkness.

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

It was silent.

Even the air around them.

He turned away from the motel across the street, unfurling his fingers from the tight grip they'd been grasped in. He was right about the blood; even in the shallow light of the moon, he could see the small trickles of red trailing down his hands from the deep grooves in his palms.

Castiel still stood with his back resting against the tree. The angel was taking deep shallow breaths as he stared towards the motel room Sam had ran to, blue eyes almost vacant.

"What's wrong with you?" he questioned. He received no answer. Reaching out he shook the angel's shoulder roughly. "Hey!"

Castiel blinked, eyes turning to him. "It is not… not possible."

Understanding seeped in. "You looked into his soul," he stated quietly, knowing Castiel would want confirmation of the dark and dreary place he believed the kid's soul should be like – after all, the kid was infused with demon blood; that didn't make for a bright, bright soul.

Castiel nodded once, sharply.

"It's a little different from what you'd expect the 'boy with the demon blood' to have, huh?" he knew his tone was scathing, but he wasn't going to retract it. "Are you ready to hear me out now, Castiel?"

**SPN~HP~BTVS**

It was pain that awoke him fully. At first, Sam wanted to just crawl back into the darkness where the pain couldn't reach him, but he could hear the sound of his brother's voice distantly calling to him through a very long tunnel. He forced his eyes open; panic flooding him as his surroundings were filled with darkness. Oh god, was something wrong with his eyes?

"You're okay, kiddo, just let your eyes adjust," Dean's gruff voice echoed around him, this time closer and louder but not loud enough to be painful, but he could still pick up the clear panic and worry in Dean's voice beyond the calm exterior.

Sam blinked rapidly trying to clear his eyes and realised it wasn't as dark around him as his panicked mind had originally thought. It was still dark outside, night having not yet lifted, so he couldn't have been out for more than a couple hours or so. Getting his hands underneath him, he was able to push himself up and roll over onto his butt. His hand immediately went to his neck, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands as he did so; he could feel the dried blood on his skin but thankfully it had stopped bleeding.

Raising his head, expecting to be met by his brother's worried green eyes, he blinked as only free air greeted him.

"Dean?" he called, waiting for a response from the bathroom.

None came.

The reason why hit him a moment later.

"Dean," he whispered brokenly, the full weight of his big brother's death slamming into him all over again like a bullet to the chest.

His brother had never been there; he had only heard Dean in his head.

A gasp escaped him. His arms were the only things keeping him sitting upright, but they gave way behind him and he hit the floor; curling into himself, and uncaring for the searing pain of the cracked or broken rib, he brought a fist to his mouth, teeth digging into knuckles as he tried to stifle the screams that wanted to escape him.


End file.
